The Tiki Tiki Tiki Doom
by Slinky-and-the-BloodyWands
Summary: A haunting. Easy enough. Only, the tiki bar is too lousy with tourists for them to hunt, Dean's mysteriously got the hots for the ghost-chick, and Sam's sarong is...a sarong. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**Warnings**: Adult language, alcohol, & a non-graphic adult situation

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Supernatural. Written for fun, not profit.

**Author's notes: **Written for The Summer Lovin' Reverse Mini Bang at spn_bigpretzel. Inspired by a piece of art called "The Tiki Bar is Open" by just_ruth (and yes, I did listen to John Hiatt's "The Tiki Bar is Open" while writing).

The first scene takes place in season 7 (only minor spoilers, so it's safe to read if you haven't watched), right after "It's Time for a Wedding," but the case actually takes place in season 2, so you can skip the first scene, if you haven't seen S7.

* * *

**_The Tiki Tiki Tiki Doom_**

**Part 1 of 2**_  
_

* * *

_**Now**_

* * *

"…Yeah, but come on, _Becky_?"

"Go ahead, get it out," Sam urged, waiting for his brother to go on.

"You guys didn't…Did you? I mean, dude, that's totally assault charge territory. Talk about your dubious consent..." Only he chuckled as he said it—it wasn't his fault Sam's glare always set him off. "Nevermind…ladies never kiss and tell. I get it. And what's one more thing to put on the therapy bill?"

Dean trained his eyes back on the road, letting the conversation drift, and Sam sighed, obviously content that it was done—apparently an annulment left one with a sense of self-satisfaction. Dean gave him a sideways glance; if he ran with this whole silent bit, Dean would be stuck with only himself as company. Which meant having to think about other things, like Leviathan. Or like his little brother not needing anymore. Or like a certain demon scheming. Or…like his little brother not needing him anymore. Stupid stuff. So, instead, he shook his head.

"Man, what is it with you always attracting the weird chicks, anyhow?"

Sam huffed. "Me? Like I'm the _only_ one who attracts that type?" At Dean's confused expression, Sam shook his head, amazed. "You really just washed your brain of it, didn't you?"

"What 'it'? A female 'it'?"

Dean didn't like the slow grin spreading across Sam's face.

"Florida," Sam said, enjoying the memory. "The tiki bar with the ghost."

Dean's face paled. "Are you friggin' kidding me, man! That was like six years ago, and you promised to _never_ bring that up again."

Sam chuckled. "Hey, not my fault you can't take what you're dishin' out."

"So help me, if you make me mentally re-live that case, I'm going to buy a sarong at the next clothing shop, and you will _not_ like where I shove it."

Sam raised his hands in surrender. "Wow, aren't we touchy…"

"That was _not_ a fun time, Sammy," Dean reminded. He took a calming breath, pausing just a moment before shrugging a kink out of his shoulders. "Great. Now I'm craving a Mai Tai…That's just perfect…"

* * *

_**Then**_

* * *

It had been hours since they'd crossed into Florida, and Dean had yet to stop bitching: it was too humid, there were too many old people, it was too humid, there were too many alligators, it was too humid, people here didn't know how to drive, it was—

"It's humid!" Sam snapped, cutting him off.

Dean snorted. "Jeeze, someone's grumpy."

Sam was tempted to react in many different ways, a few of which involved pushing his brother out of a moving vehicle. However, since his brother was currently driving, and Sam didn't particularly want to die today, he only sighed, rubbing a worry line above his eyebrow.

It worked like a charm, shutting Dean up. He let his attention leave the road a second. "You feeling okay?" Dean asked.

Sam closed his eyes, enjoying the break. A tiny part of him felt kind of bad for playing it up. It was a _very_ tiny part. "Fine," he muttered, miserably.

Dean stayed quiet all of five seconds. "You know it's probably just this damn weather giving you a headache…" he said.

Sam groaned. So much for that ruse. "Dean, for God's sake, you're the one who wanted to take this job! I told you it sounded like we could pass it on, but no, _you _said it would be _nice_ to travel south."

Dean frowned. Sam rolled his eyes. He knew his brother hadn't meant that sentiment at the time.

The real reason Dean had agreed to take the job was because it had come from a call intended for their father. Apparently the guy who needed their help was a friend of a friend of John Winchester's. And, truthfully, Sam had went along with it because he knew Dean needed a vacation—if the vacation and the case had to go hand-in-hand, so be it. It suddenly occurred to Sam that maybe Dean had figured that part out, which explained why he'd been complaining nonstop.

"Like a sleepy toddler being put down to nap…" Sam hissed.

"What'd you say?"

"Nothing." Sam sat up straight. "Is that the place Joey said to turn?"

"Into the ocean?" Dean must have felt Sam's glare, because he chuckled. "Yeah, yeah, I see it…" He let out a whistle as their wheels kicked up more sand than blacktop. "Welcome to The _How-to-Lay_ Hut—hey, Sammy, think they give lessons?"

Sam rolled his eyes as he caught sight of the sign hanging from a post in front of them, a few rough-edged boards nailed together and painted bright yellow and blue. Between two vintage flower images were carved words, _The Hau'oli Hut_. "It's pronounced 'how-oh-lay,' Dean," he corrected, knowing from his brother's smirk that it wasn't necessary. "And what happened to hating Florida?"

Sam didn't really need an answer. He could already see what had lifted his brother's mood as the Impala pulled into a parking spot. She was brunette, wearing a few strings tied to a few strategically placed triangles, and disappearing around the side of the hut.

"Oh, I still hate it," Dean disagreed, craning his neck in a vain attempt to follow the sight, "but with a liberal application of bikini babes and rum, I think I can suffer through for a couple days."

The tiki bar itself wasn't really their type of hangout, but it was hard not to want to embrace the tourist vibe when it was so well presented.

With evening's approach, the sky over the ocean was awash with bright orange bleeding into coral and lavender. Without the rumble of the engine, the roll of the waves blended with the sound of a tranquil Polynesian melody playing from the speakers planted outside the bar. The hut's roof pitched high at the front, layered in browned palm leaves and brush, and surrounding it entries, tall wooden tiki men held up already lit torches. The building itself was an illusion, open completely on one side where a latch and two supports held up what should have been the fourth wall, and table sets spilled out around a planked dance floor leading out to the beach.

From this angle, they couldn't see much more of the inside, but the awaiting bar and kitschy decorations were all but promised. As if on cue, a pair of blondes wearing floral sarongs and barely-there bikini tops stepped out onto the floor to deliver a few drinks to the patrons who were beginning the evening early. Of which there were several, it appeared… Sam snorted when he saw another sign, this one a waving banner between two posts announcing that tonight was the 46th Anniversary of The Hau'oli Hut—"_Get Lei'd Tonight! Celebrate with live music, $7 pitchers, and babes…"_

Oh-so classy. "Great," Sam sighed.

Talking to the owner was going to be a bitch with a truckload of partiers interrupting them. And getting part of the job done tonight? Not an option. They wouldn't even be able to take the EMF meter for a walk-through.

Dean grumbled something under his breath about civilians. "Yeah—Joey said something about a luau. But we're not in a hurry on this, anyway. From the pattern, whoever this spirit is, they seem to only amp up their game once a year. In theory, we've got about a week before it starts wrecking its usual havoc."

"'In theory.' So, we're still going with spirit?" Sam asked.

Dean shrugged. "Unless we find out it's not. Fits though. Even the locals say this place is haunted—but by a, and I quote, _'friendly'_ ghost. Apparently, it doesn't usually manifest, just moves shit, tickles the backs of patrons' necks, causes cold spots in the middle of July, flickers the lights…"

"The usual." Sam frowned. "And the owner has no clue why it pops in at a certain time a year to kill a random guy?"

"That's the thing—Joey didn't even notice the pattern at all until last year."

The guys shut the Impala's doors behind them, lowering their voices as they approached—as it tended to cut down on bar patron satisfaction to hear about mysterious deaths in said-bar. In the distance, they could see a band setting up on a platform closer to the beach. Sam figured there'd soon be a big spill over of guests from the towering condos next door.

"How?" Sam asked. "How'd he _not_ notice?"

"Joey only bought the place two years ago. It kills once annually, and in weird, freaky ass ways—usually by throwing a blunt object or pushing someone down onto something sharp 'n pointy, as if it's pissed to high heaven. It throws a supernatural bitch fit and someone dies."

Sam nodded along. "Which could be interpreted as an accident…"

"Sometimes it takes out workers, sometimes it's regular customers—last year it was a repair guy," Dean continued. "Plumbing system was shot to shit. Poor sap came out here several days in a row to work on it, until one day patrons hear him shouting at someone from the bathroom and then, _wham-bam_, he mysteriously smashes his head through the mirror and drowns himself in the toilet. Joey said after that, he remembered another guy, a customer who died the same time the year before, when he first bought the place. Figured it was just bum luck 'til he started to check it out—traced deaths back ten years. At least."

Sam raised a brow. "Huh. And that's when he called us?"

"Well, apparently, he called in a psychic and a priest before us, but that didn't pan out. Never does. He's afraid there's going to be another death. Really doesn't want the spike in his insurance payments, so, a buddy of his recommended Dad."

Sam glanced over at his brother. As he'd expected, his lips were tight, eyes staring through something in the distance in thought. Keep it work-related, Sam reminded himself. "And the kill window? You said we have about a week?"

"Over those ten years, the deaths always took place within the same two weeks. Which, for us, means we have five days. We figure out who the spook is early, we can salt n' burn and hit the road before it rears its ugly head… Plus, it'll be nice to make some honest money. Joey said—"

Sam slapped a palm against his brother's chest, stopping him from walking through the door to the interior. "We're getting paid?"

Dean grinned. "I forget to mention that? Dude, he's paying us for the gig, _and_ he's hooking us up with some work around the place, too. He's a bit short-handed right now, so I said it would be cool. Figured it would give us plenty of time to check the place out."

Sam blinked. "So…wait…you're going to actually _work_?"

Dean pouted. "Yeah, yeah, laugh it up—if it helps my image, we're getting paid under the table."

The smell of rum and beer was heavy in the air as they stepped into the open-sided building. The place was exactly as Sam had imaged. Colored paper lanterns hung from the beams beneath the high ceiling, casting a constant ruddy glow over the shelves of liquor bottles lining the wall behind the bar, the only area not taken over by the cultural detritus of years past: tiki men, coconut monkeys, and wooden masks laden with plastic leis and paper umbrellas, a ship's figurehead of a chesty woman mounted high above the counter, photos of dead celebrities in tropical settings plastering the walls…Plenty to look when a few drinks with friends turned into getting kicked out in the A.M.

"Yo, Dean-o, over here!"

The voice shocked Sam out of his observation. He turned in time to see his brother stepping away to shake hands with the owner, Joey. Joey wasn't quite what Sam had expected from a tiki bar owner—of course, Sam had never actually spoken with the man, so it was no surprise that Dean didn't seemed to question his appearance at all.

Joey was short, built thick and round, his black hair far past simply receding, and he had a pocked mug that looked like it could have been made out of pounded mud. A couple scars wrinkled his cheek and brow, and his ear lobes looked like folded lumps, which Sam took to mean that the guy had been a serious fighter at some point in his life—in his dated white suit and beer belly, he was anything but these days.

"See, I saw that ride of yours creep in and knew it must be that baby you described—can't be two cherry Impalas rollin' into my joint on the same night, you know?" Joey shook Dean's hand with a chuckle. "Glad to see you could make it, kid, you and your—_Jesus, Mary, and Joseph_, you call that your_ little_ brother?"

Sam blinked, thrown off by the accent spilling out of the man's mouth. Brooklyn? Jersey? Sam wasn't sure, but it was a damn fine imitation of every TV mobster he'd ever heard. Something told him this guy's real last name wasn't Armstrong, but he wasn't going to question it. After all, they didn't exactly advertise they were Winchesters.

A burst of high-pitched laughter from the table beside him nearly deafened Sam for a moment.

"…Actually, we were hoping to get straight to work—" Dean began, answering something Joey had said.

The man raised a hand in protest. "What are you, a workaholic or somethin'? Relax a bit, stick around, find yourselves some pretty young things—the drinks are on me. I got business, so we'll talk when we talk." The man turned away before Dean could stop him, slipping over to a waitress. "Bebe, where the hell's my leis—the people wanna get lei'd, dat's why they come to a joint like this. Christ, you girls have gotta…"

Sam and Dean stared after him before turning to one another.

"Free drinks?" Dean asked.

"Free drinks," Sam confirmed.

* * *

Dean stared at the wall of bottles as if each and every one of them had betrayed him. His head was still pounding from the night before. Only the fact that Joey wanted to talk to them before closing that morning—not nearly enough hours ago—kept him sober enough not to go home with any of the ladies he'd spend the evening playing drinking games with.

Dean glanced down at the now empty tables, remembering a few particular details—God, there had been this one brunette with these retro curls to her shoulders and a big flower in her hair. She'd whispered some Hawaiian phrase in his ear and put a lei over his head…

"The pin-up babe," he whispered to himself, somewhat regretfully. He hadn't noticed if she was one of the waitresses or just in the same beach uniform as most the other honeys, but she'd put the necklace of strung nuts and flowers around his neck and leaned in for a kiss. Dean could still taste the cherry lip balm.

"You say somethin', hot stuff?"

Dean turned back to the two waitresses setting up the outside area; chairs in place, tiki-shaped salt and pepper shakers and bottles of hot sauce for the day-time crowd. The speaker was a curvy woman about Sam's age, dark-skinned and wearing her hair in short, thick braids, each ending with a small shell. Dean turned on his Mr. Charm smile.

Hell, why was he so caught up in memories of pin-up chick when he had perfectly lovely ladies right here? "Nothin', Nat," he replied. "You or Bebe need any help with those?"

She shook her head, her thick lips curled upward. "Nah, Joey wants you looking over that drink list. Not that you'll have much to do if you're working daytime, but lord, you wouldn't believe how many locals come in for a cocktail at lunch…Speaking of which, never seen a man put back two Zombies and make it to work the next day. Impressive."

Dean's smile tightened as he shivered. He stiffened slightly as he took in the room temp, but the chill had been temporarily. And more likely due to the toxins from the alcohol still in his body than spirit activity. He shrugged it off. Damn deceptive cocktails—all girly with their fruity juices one second and coming back up the pipe the next. Not that he wanted Nat to know he'd understood the meaning of the drink's name when he'd pulled himself out of bed that morning, feeling like the living dead.

"What can I say? Takes more than a couple zombies to put me down, sugar."

Now that she'd mentioned it, though, he went back to the drink list posted under the eye-line of the counter, trying to remember what went into a Singapore Sling. While this was by no means his first time making drinks, this _was_ his first time working as an actual bartender. Joey had taken one hard look at him and told him he'd be doing the job. Of course, the man had also added that a monkey could do it, too, so there was no room for his ego to grow.

But, hey, it was pouring drinks, and he was a friggin' Winchester—if Tom Cruise could do this, he could do this. Easy. The hardest part would be keeping his God-forsaken outfit on. The flip-flops and cut-off denim shorts he could maybe handle. But, seriously, a red floral shirt? Winchester men did not _do _Hawaiian shirts. And then Joey had told him to leave it unbuttoned and put on a stupid ass Captain's hat?

Dean was starting to think the dude had a thing for him. Not that he wasn't okay with guys having things for guys, but when it left him dressed like Magnum P.I.? Not cool.

Dean's figured his theory was confirmed when his brother walked out of the back two seconds later dressed in nothing but a low-hanging blue sarong. A _very_ low hanging sarong. As in, wrapped tight around his hips, and, crap, there's going to be a serious problem if that gets snagged on a table—_that_ kind of low hanging sarong.

Dean did the only thing a big brother could do in the situation. He folded over the counter, laughing.

Sam crossed his arms over his bare chest, looking more like a bashful stripper than a pissed-off hunter, and frowned. "You're a jerk," he bit.

"And you're in skirt," Dean returned, once he caught his breath. The waitresses were giggling across the room, and if Sam's blush was any indication, Dean wasn't the only one who heard them. "Dude, I know the girls are required to wear the uniform but…Damn." He tried for pity, and failed. "Joey tell you to wear that?"

Sam huffed, his glare clearly stating that Dean was an idiot for even asking. "He said we'd understand after working the lunch crowd." Then, as an afterthought, he muttered, "And he said if he's paying us in cash he can tell us what to wear."

Dean shook his head, wiping the tears out of his eyes. "Dude, there's _never_ a good reason for wearing a sarong in public. I don't care what he says. You got on a speedo under that?"

"Just…shut up."

* * *

Sam would never admit it in a thousand years, but he was starting to understand why Joey had put him in a sarong.

Tiki bars, in general, weren't as busy in the daytime, especially off season, and as he'd learned from the tiny, pixie-looking red-headed waitress he was working by, Bebe, Joey usually didn't even have anyone working the bar before seven in the evening. It was then, after he saw the customers he'd been seating, and after the first grandmother slapped his ass, that he realized why Joey had been adamant they show a little skin: the money. Or more specifically, the women who brought the money.

No, not the sorority girls who flooded in after dark, but grown women, most of which ranged from middle-aged to retired. Apparently, they stayed regularly at the neighboring condos as some part of a ladies-focused tourism club, and came over for the lunch special, jerk beef kebabs, which was basically all the hut served from their tiny kitchen, aside from burgers, po-boys, and salsa.

Joey knew his customers well. After the lunch rush, Sam realized he'd already pocketed (figuratively speaking) more tip money than he usually made during a night of hustling with his brother. Which seemed completely fair, considering the 'accidental' touches and cheek pinches he was receiving. On his face. Mostly. And the customers weren't walking out after their meals, but sticking around to order drinks and…enjoy the view.

More than once, he heard a comment about someone's extreme love for Magnum P.I. while they stared fondly at the bar.

Sam chuckled when he turned around to see that the bar counter had finally started to clear out. Sam was pretty sure his brother had never even made a Mai Tai before today, but he'd been shaking them up like he was born with a bottle of Curacaos in his hand. Dean looked exhausted, leaning against the side wall, where a rack of coconut mugs hung.

Sam stole a moment, slipping over to the bar. "How's it going?"

Dean groaned but managed a lazy smile. "My tip jar runneth over. You?"

"I've been touched in bad places." Sam glanced over his shoulder, making sure he wasn't overheard. "I did some research at the motel while you were coming out of your Zombie cocktail coma this morning."

Dean perked up. "Anything?"

Sam nodded. "Joey was right. But the deaths go back at least over thirty years, not ten. Some of those others were hard to track because a couple of them were suicides. As in, guys walking out into the ocean and not coming back or driving their cars purposely into stone walls—but the incidents took place too close to the Hut to be coincidence."

"So we're thinking they left here and…"

"Yeah. But get this—I talked to a couple of the local ladies sitting in my area, and they said the odd occurrences go back further than the deaths, at least according to rumor. One said she used to waitress here in the late sixties and—"

"Odd occurrences?" Dean interrupted. "During the same window?"

"Yeah—like a guy acting, well, the woman I spoke to said 'lovestruck'—all happy-go-lucky one second, then woe-is-me the next. Said they called it the 'Tiki Love Goddess Curse'."

Dean frowned. "So, if it's a spirit, it's gotten stronger over the years and decided to up the stakes to murder? You said the sixties—how far back does this go?"

Sam shrugged. "Like you said, Joey hasn't owned this place long, but there are lots of bloggers who like writing about these old establishments. I can do some more research when we get back to the motel tonight. Maybe we can do an EMF sweep early in the morning, check and see if our spirit theory is right?"

"Sounds like a plan. We should—"

Dean broke off his reply, eyes going to the other side of the bar, where a well-dressed woman in a crisp white sundress and floppy matching hat approached. Sam didn't have to be an expert to see her orange-tan face was stiff with Botox that did nothing to hide the age-betraying sag of her neck. She looked down her narrow, surgeon-perfected nose at the men, as if out of habit, and then smiled stiffly. Dean tapped the counter and took off to serve her.

Sam glanced back at his tables—all clear—and decided to perch on the edge of the closest stool, waiting for his brother to take the woman's order.

"Blue Hawaiian—that's Hawaii_an_, not Hawa_ii_. There's a difference," she said.

Dean ignored the attitude. "Comin' up," he said, turning back to find the crème of coconut.

Sam watched, somewhat fascinated as the woman openly stared at his brother's butt. Seriously? She was old enough to be his mother. And he thought guys in bars were supposed to be the dogs. Dean turned back, seemingly oblivious as he plopped an umbrella into the glass and gave her the drink with a bright, if strained, smile.

The woman held out a folded bill, but pulled it back before Dean could take it. Sam blinked, mouth slightly agape—_was that a fifty?_

"Actually," she said, her cool gaze crawling over Dean's chest, "my companions and I were hoping to order something off the menu." She gave a subtle head tilt, indicating the small group of equally well-dressed women gathered at an outside table, watching the bar counter with rapt attention. "I'm sure _bartending,"_ she said the word as if it were equal to cleaning toilets, "doesn't offer many benefits. How would you like to earn a little extra money?"

"The Hell?" Sam muttered, but he had to bite down a chuckle when he saw the stunned expression on Dean's face. Oh sure, to others it would probably look like he was still grinning politely, but Sam knew better.

"We're celebrating my sister's long overdue divorce and would like some…" She paused, raking her eyes over his abs, "…entertainment for the night."

Dean swallowed hard. "Lady—I think you might be…uh…looking in the wrong place. I don't…entertain."

She only smiled haughtily and reached out, tucking the folded bill into his breast pocket and giving it a pat. "Consider that an incentive payment. Room 117 at the Phoenix Suites. Be there around 9. Don't change clothes."

Dean glanced down at his open shirt, as if he'd forgotten what he was wearing. Or possibly couldn't believe someone had just put money on his person. Sam wasn't sure which—he was too busy rocking in silence laughter.

Until he saw _her._

The spirit appeared for only a moment, a young brunette in a white and red bikini. It was a split second frame of her jittering image in which she was standing behind Dean, pretty face twisted in a grimace as she glared at the now retreating woman. The ghost's hand pressed against Dean's back, almost protectively. Sam sucked in a breath, jumping to his feet just in time to hear the glass of Blue Hawaiian explode into shards.

The older woman screeched, dropping the stem, then cried out again, in outrage, when she saw the blue-green splatter over her white dress. Her friends rushed forward, napkins at the ready, as the rest of the bar erupted in hushed whispers.

By the time Sam turned back to his brother, the apparition was gone, and Dean was staring back at him, looking even more confused than he had during his…job offer.

So much for theory—it was definitely a ghost haunting The Hau'oli Hut. And it looked like she'd picked her annual mark: Dean.


	2. Chapter 2

**Warnings**: Adult language, alcohol, & a non-graphic adult situation

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Supernatural. Written for fun, not profit.

**A/N:** Big thanks to everyone who signed up to follow the story and/or commented. I hope you enjoy this conclusion.

* * *

**_The Tiki Tiki Tiki Doom_**

**Part 2 of 2**

* * *

The morning sun wasn't so much present as rolling out the red carpet to announce its arrival, and the hut was, as expected, empty of occupants. Dean stifled a yawn with one hand and raised his paper coffee cup with the other.

"Sammy," he said, between scolding swallows, "I don't think this is necessary."

Sam rubbed grit out of his eyes and pushed past his brother to open the bar's side entrance door. "Are you serious? You're the one who asked Joey for the key so we could check out the place on our own time."

Dean frowned at the back of his brother's head. "Not that, man—I'm just sayin' I don't think this_ job_ is necessary. She kills, what? Once a year, and it looks like it's more accidental than murderous..."

Sam turned around slowly, a brow raised, and his arm tightened around the sawed-off tucked at his elbow. "What do you mean by that?"

What _did_ he mean by that? Dean stared into the darkened opening to the bar, trying to figure out why that thought had even crossed his mind. "I mean, why are we here? We should be researching dead girls, shouldn't we?"

Sam's frown deepened. "We talked about this last night—I didn't find any hits. The blogs didn't pan out too well, either. I'm going to use the EMF to check and see if there are any objects she might be attached to…We went over this, man." He hesitated, biting his bottom lip in thought. "Maybe you should wait in the car."

Dean snorted. "The hell I will, dude. I'm just tired—spaced out for sec there. That's all."

"Alright…but just…if you start to feel strange, let me know. We don't really know what she does to her victims. All reports say the guys who died started acting strangely before it happened."

"Because they were seeing a ghost, Sam," Dean said, rolling his eyes. "Kinda freaks the civilians out."

"I'm not sure that's the whole story, Dean."

"Stop bitchin' and let's get this over with before our damn shift starts." Dean shoved past him into the dining area. "You take the kitchen, I'll look over the bathroom, where the last guy bit it. We'll meet up here in tiki-knick-knack Hell."

Sam nodded in confirmation and made his way across the room. Dean took a step toward the bathrooms and then stopped, staring at the wall. He listened but only heard his brother moving through the storage room.

A familiar chill ran over his body, and he let out a slow breath, watching it form a cloud of mist in front of his face. He spun on his heels, his shot-gun raised at the ready, but he hesitated when he saw the woman who was behind him. She was sitting on the edge of the table, her bare legs crossed, a smile on her red-stained lips.

"Hey, stud," she said in a sugar-sweet voice. She leaned back on her arms, her chest pressed out on display. "I wish you'd come trollin' my way more often. And not just when you're blitzed. It's a real drag being stuck here all by my lonesome."

Dean's brow furrowed but the gun slowly slipped down. He shook his head, his mind feeling foggy."It's…It's hard to get away."

She cocked her head, pouting. "Why'd you haul the flake along?"

He shrugged. "He won't bother us."

Dean blinked, and she was in front of him, staring up. She reached up, her fingers grazing his neck. Her gaze was hard, despite her soft, cool touch. "I saw that slut drawin' designs on you today—you weren't out showing that old sweat hog your stuff tonight, were ya? 'Cause that could make a girl turn all green-eyed monster."

Dean frowned. "You know you're the only girl for me, Sandy."

Her fingers clawed into his short hair, pulling his head down. "That's what I like to hear," she whispered, and drew him into a kiss.

"Dean."

Dean jumped, startled by the call, and stared out at the open, and empty, space between him and the table. He blinked, dazed—Christ, wasn't that Zombie hangover ever going to go away?

"Dean?" Sam stood in the door frame to the kitchen area, an EMF meter in his hand. "You find anything?"

Dean reached up, touching his lips. They felt numb. He licked the bottom one, tasting a lingering hint of cherry. "Weird," he muttered, then cleared his throat. "Nothing on my end."

* * *

Having a half-dressed guy in a sarong staring at him was never a comfortable feeling for Dean Winchester. It was even more disturbing when said-guy was his brother. Dean decided ignoring him might work best, so he went back to straightening the row of tiki mugs.

Since their visit to the bar earlier that morning, Dean had been on edge, and Sam had been watching him like a hawk. Which maybe accounted for the being on edge part.

"Something is up with you."

Dean groaned, annoyed with the accusation. "Nothing is up with me, Sammy." Even as the words left his mouth, Dean knew they rang hollow. Something _was_ up, but Dean couldn't quite put his finger on what it was. And he certainly didn't want to talk to his brother about it.

"I think you should go back to the motel and wait there."

Dean slammed the steel cocktail shaker down onto his work counter, glaring up. "We open in fifteen minutes, man. Will you knock off the mother hen routine?" At Sam's frown of worry—Dean had really been aiming to piss him off—Dean lowered his voice. "Just...let's get through today, alright? Aren't you supposed to be helping the girls set up?"

Sam stared at him for another second before huffing. "Fine. But tonight, we figure out who this spirit is, and we finish this."

_Sandy_. The name slipped through his mind like a faded memory, but Dean brushed it off. "Just cool your jets, Sam. Her kill window isn't even open yet. We take our time and do this right. I don't know why you're in such a hurry to gank a hot ghost chick anyhow."

Sam made a face. "Hot? You said you never even saw her."

"Hey—your description painted a certain mental picture. Not my fault."

Shaking his head in frustration, Sam stomped off, his sandals flapping the wooden floor. Dean bent down to one knee behind the counter, looking for a box of miniature paper umbrellas the night shift bartender had moved.

"Which is a problem I never thought I'd have," he muttered.

Just as he was pushing aside a jar of sours mix, the air around him cooled and a hand touched his knee. He followed red painted nails up a slender arm and found himself staring at Sandy's smiling face. She was sitting there, hidden behind the bar with him, her legs tucked under her body as if she'd been relaxing in that very spot for ages.

"Miss me, stud?" she asked, her voice husky with lust.

Dean's body tensed, but his brain lagged behind. There was something he was supposed to do in this situation, something he was supposed to _know_, but he couldn't quite figure out what he was missing. He swiped his hand over his face, as if he'd just woken up, and gave her a tired grin.

"Always, sweetheart," he answered.

She giggled, leaning forward to run her hands up his denim clad thighs. "Got time to play, or is the panty waist gonna show up again?"

"Sam?" Dean frowned, blinking in confusion. "Sam won't bother us."

"Bitchin'. Don't want the fink rattin' us out to my Old Man, do we? Now, where were we? Oh, yeah…"

She pushed against him, meeting his lips with hers, her chest pushed tight against him. Dean moaned into her mouth, his hands sliding down her sides to rest on the round curve of her hips. She pulled away, leaving him gasping for breath, but only moved her lips down his body, pressing kisses into his neck until she found a spot she liked. His pants shrunk the instant she began to suck his skin between her teeth.

"Christ, Sandy," he breathed. "I…I have to get to work…"

Sandy didn't answer, only moving to press her leg against his crotch.

"Dean?"

Dean bit down another moan, then realized the voice hadn't come from the girl pressed against him. He blinked to awareness, pushing her back and standing. Sandy only smiled up at him from her spot on the floor. Dean cleared his throat and turned his attention to the waitress standing on the other side of the counter.

Nat raised a brow, the shells on her braids clinking as she bent forward, trying to peek past him. "What were you doing down there?"

Dean jumped into her line of sight. "Umbrellas," he spat, then attempted to smile. "Paper umbrellas, ran out. New box." Dean ran a finger over his bottom lip, hoping to cover up any lipstick stains.

Nat only stared back. "Yeah, okay. On your search below, did you happen to see a spare set of tiki salt and pepper shakers?"

Dean felt his zipper tug down and coughed to cover the sound. "Uh…pepper shakers?" he asked, reaching down beneath the counter to discretely push aside the fingers working their way into his shorts.

Nat rolled her eyes. "These tourists, I swear they get their rocks off on taking those stupid little…"

Dean was only half listening, what meager blood left upstairs rushing south as Sandy, undeterred, slipped her hand past his zipper.

"…And it's not like they cost much," Nat continued, "but Joey acts like every cent lost to this place is about to break him. Which is why he hadn't hired any new help until…"

Dean nodded along, gripping the countertop tightly as he tried to not pay attention to the cherry red lips that were currently—

"That sucks…" he squeaked, unconsciously thrusting forward.

Nat's voice cut off. Her brow wrinkled in concern. "You okay, hot stuff? Kinda looks like you spent too much time in the sun yesterday."

Dean let out a panting, too-loud chuckle, jerking his hips back. "Uh—yeah. Sun," he agreed, breathless. "Too much of it."

Nat smiled back. "You know, I was thinking…We're working the same shift again today. How about I let you buy me a coffee when I get off?" She cocked her head, a mirthful glimmer in her eyes. "I know a place that's a little quieter than this one. Interested?"

Dean sucked in a shallow gulp of air as the movement below the counter suddenly ceased. He could see his breath when he released it, hanging in the air like a cloud. It felt like someone had just opened a freezer behind him.

"Crap."

Before he could react, a bottle of rum flew off the highest shelf, right past Nat. She cried out in shock as it crashed behind her. Like a bullet, Sam shot past the kitchen doorway and pushed her out of way just as a bottle of vodka zoomed through the airspace her head had just been occupying.

As quickly as the attack had begun, it stopped again. Dean zipped up his fly and shook his head, confused. Then he leaned over the counter, staring at the pair below. "What the hell are you doing on the floor?"

Sam pulled himself up, helping Nat to her feet, before shooting his brother a hard glance. "Dean. Outside. _Now."_

* * *

"…Thank you for your time, ma'am. I'd really appreciate it."

Sam snapped the cell phone shut, took a breath to cool himself down, and stepped back into the motel room, determined to not start another fight. Taking in the scene, he glared at his brother. Instead of doing research, like he said he would, Dean was laying back on the bed, his hands behind his head, his eyes staring into space. Shirt abandoned on the chair, he was still wearing his shorts, despite his hate for them and despite the fact that they'd left work early several hours ago.

After an argument. In front of the lunch crowd. Since, apparently, Dean _really_ didn't want to leave his job. Sam was fairly certain the waitresses, as well as everyone else inside the hut, thought he was some kind of control freak for dragging his brother out. From the expression on his face, Dean still hadn't quite forgiven him.

"I just got off the phone with someone very interesting," Sam announced.

Dean grunted. "I'm missing work."

Sam pursed his lips, peeved beyond belief, but he managed to keep himself from shouting. Mostly because he kept reminding himself that this wasn't entirely his brother's fault. After non-stop researching and more phone calls than he cared to mention, he was beginning see the big picture here, and he absolutely didn't like it.

Sam slammed the door behind him. Still no reaction from the bed. "Aliens landed outside. They've abducted Big Foot."

Dean sighed, looking lost. "Someone was going to order a Volcano today. I was really looking forward to making one."

Sam huffed, plopping down on the bed across from his brother. "The car's on fire."

Dean shot up, eyes wide. "Baby?"

Sam grabbed him by the arm before he could take off and pushed him back down to the mattress. "Finally. Dude, haven't you realized that you've been acting kind of _odd_ since we left the bar? Can you even explain it?"

Dean snorted. "I haven't been acting 'odd', Samantha. I just don't like leaving work early."

Sam raised a brow. "Is that because your girlfriend's there?"

"What, you mean Nat? I'm not even interested in—"

"That's the problem," Sam interrupted. He shook his head. "Okay, Dean, just sit here and listen for a couple minutes. Really listen. Can you do that?"

"What the frick? You're not attempting to play therapist are you?"

Sam refused to answer that. "Dean. I…I think you're in love."

Dean blinked. "Funny, you'd think I'd notice something like that.."

"I'm serious—"

"So am I!" Dean snapped. "Just because I'm a little worn down from all those dumb ass cocktails I tried at that stupid party doesn't mean I'm under some ghost's influence."

Sam perked up. "The Anniversary party? You've been like this since the party, specifically? That must be when she picked you…"

"I didn't get _picked _by anyone, Sam. And I'm not in _love_!"

"No, not in real love, but this is what the ghost does." Sam stood up, looming over his brother to keep him from shooting to an escape via the bathroom. "She always picks guys around this time of year. They reportedly act strange. That customer called it 'lovesick', and I think she's right. Which is also why I think you've been seeing the ghost."

Dean shoved his brother out of his way. "Like Hell! Don't you think I would have said something if I was chatting it up with a flirty spook?"

Sam watched as his brother paused, brow wrinkled in thought, as if he'd just remembered something.

"You have, Dean. You have a hickey on your neck that wasn't there earlier today. She's got you under her thrall."

Dean made a sour face, opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. He reached up, touching the tender pink whelp on the skin where his neck met his shoulder. "Shit…"

"Yeah."

Dean shook his head. "_Shit_."

"You said that already." Sam sighed, guiding him back down to his bed once more. "The good news is I'm pretty sure we're just dealing with a ghost, not something as hard to break as an actual love spell. The bad news is, I think there might be a cursed object involved, that the ghost has attached herself to."

Dean frowned. "Dude, I feel so…violated. I think I made out with a dead chick…"

Sam awkwardly reached out, patting him on the shoulder. "Yeah. You probably did. But, bright side? She didn't push you to suicide or get angry enough to murder you yet. Apparently that usually takes a week or two of...courtship."

Dean glared. "Thanks. Who's this bitch and how do I…" He shook his head, wincing. "Jesus, I don't even _want_ to gank her. Why the hell don't I _want_ to gank her?" he whined.

"Because you're in love. Or infatuation, at the very least." Sam smiled ruefully. "But, as I tried to tell you when I came in, I had a very interesting conversation with a woman whose family owned the tiki bar back when it first opened in the early sixties. Her name's Linda Monroe and she had a big sister named Sandy who—"

Dean ran a hand down his face. "Sandy? That's...that's definitely her."

"Well, I guess that theory's confirmed…" Sam reached out to where his laptop lay on his pillow and flipped it open. "So, as I was saying, Linda told me all about Sandy—she's sending us some pictures, too. Sandy died in '67, at age 21. Linda was only a kid back then, but even she had some rather colorful ways of describing her sister's dating habits."

"She got around," Dean supplied, blushing as he remembered her...skills behind the bar.

Sam nodded. "Quite a bit. But, still, she was a small town girl with big dreams. She wanted to be an actress and spent a year in Hollywood, but she came back home a broke failure. She was pretty, but…Linda said she was kind of a ditz. The thing is, when she came back here and went to work at her parents' place, she started attracting more attention than a super model."

"She's hot. Of course she got attention. And she isn't a _ditz_."

Sam glanced up, frowning, but went on. "Sure…Anyhow, let's just say it was a supernatural level of attention she received, and it got ugly fast. One night, a couple months after she got back, a fight broke out between two men proclaiming their love for her. She got in the middle of it, was shoved back, and cracked her head open on one of the tiki statues. Died later from complications."

"Let me guess. Death-day lands sometime over the next two weeks?"

Sam nodded in confirmation. "Unfortunately, the Monroe family had their daughter cremated. But, like I said, the lovesick thing seemed to start before her death. I'm thinking, when she came back from California, she brought something with her—Linda said her sister had a box of decorations she'd bought from another tiki bar in Hollywood to bring back to her parents… Linda still has some old photographs of the items being put up around the hut—and,_ bingo_, she sent them."

Sam spun the laptop around, clicking open his email so that an age-yellowed, scanned copy of a photo filled up most of the screen. "So, I'm thinking it might be something she got you to touch…But, also something she could keep away from everyone else, so that they wouldn't be able to use the curse to their advantage over all these years…"

Dean sat up straight, eyes widened. "I got lei'd!"

Sam grimaced. "Dean, I'm sorry about what she did to you, but we need to concentrate on—"

Dean reached out, smacking him across the head. "I got a _lei_ put around my _neck_, dumbass." He pointed at the photo. "Check it out."

Sam resisted the urge to punch his brother and concentrated on the image of the hut's interior, nearly forty years ago. Sandy stood at center, a sarong around her waist and a wide smile on her face. A middle-aged couple, presumably her parents, were sorting through a stack of coconut shell mugs, but the girl herself hunched over the crate, holding up a flower lei.

Sam enlarged the picture. Even though he couldn't tell the color from the aged photo, he could see the pattern of the preserved flowers, alternating with round beads—nuts and shells.

"I think I've seen this…" Sam muttered.

"Yeah, around my neck."

Sam rolled his eyes. "And at the hut," he replied. "You notice the prop of the ship's figurehead?"

Dean nodded. "Oh, the wooden woman with the…" He put his hands out over his chest as if he were cupping melons.

"Right. Above it, there's an old vintage lei hanging from a hook shaped like an anchor…Wow—that's kind of weirdly symbolic. I mean, traditionally, giving a lei is supposed to represent one person giving their affection to another."

"That's generally what giving a _lei_ always represents, college boy." Dean shook his head."What you're saying is, the lei's cursed, Sandy realized what it could do, used it, but then, like all good cursed objects, it backfired on her? But then she still decided to keep using it as a spirit?"

"Likely not even realizing it's the curse that leads to her killing her new love interests almost as soon as she's found them." Sam paused. "Yeah, I can sorta see why Linda called her a ditz."

"Shut up—" Dean broke off, waving a hand to dismiss the comment. "Dude, we've got to fix this. If it ever gets out that I've been defending a ghost—"

Sam raised a brow. "It'll still not hurt your reputation as much as the whole 'making out with a ghost' part…"

Dean's gaze narrowed. "So help me, Sam. If you tell a soul, I will strangle you with a cursed lei."

* * *

The Hau'oli Hut had seen better days. With every light bulb surged to the point of bursting, from the outside it looked as it always looked at three in the morning, quiet, dark, and abandoned. But, inside, the smell of burnt wood drifted through the air, making its way past toppled chairs, smashed bottles, and splintered tiki men. The scattering of rock salt could go unnoticed in the clutter.

"Sam…" Dean groaned, crawling across the floor to where the other man lay in a heap against the foot of the bar's long counter. He winced as glass shards scraped across his palms but didn't stop until he was kneeling over his brother, shaking him.

"Sam, wake up," he ordered. "I think you cracked your coconut...Or maybe just _a_ coconut, I can't be sure."

Sam's hazel eyes blinked to awareness. "Did we get her?" he said, his voice slow, deliberate, as if he were just awaking. The tumble he'd taken from the figurehead hadn't been pretty.

"Yeah, it worked." Dean grabbed him by the arm, hauling him up. "Think Joey will pay us after he sees this?"

On the scorched countertop, a small pile of ashes remained from the lei. Sam stared at it, a tired smile on his face as he let his gaze drift to his brother. "Thanks, man. For distracting her."

Dean shuddered. "No problem. But I need to bleach my tongue. Now."

Sam chuckled. "Man, Sandy _really_ liked you…"

Dean raised a warning finger. "We are to never speak of that, understood? I mean it, Sam. You tell, and I will find one of those old ladies who took a picture of you in your sarong."

"You wouldn't."

"Oh, I _would_." Dean gave the bar one last glance, reached out for a bottle of rum that had somehow not been shattered, and helped his brother hobble toward the door. "Hey, Sam? Have I told you how much I hate Florida?"

"Do you hate it more than California?"

Dean raised a brow. "Why?"

"Know how Sandy bought that crate from another bar? It's still open."

"Crap."

* * *

**Random End Notes: **

The title of the story is based on the song "The Tiki Tiki Tiki Room," played at Disney's The Enchanted Tiki Room. I couldn't resist. And, also I thought, "Dean Winchester and the Mystery of the Cursed Lei" was too on-the-nose.

This story is not based on one specific tiki bar. In fact, I looked at pictures of a couple of bars in different states, and combined them, in my head. The Hau'oli Hut is my own creation with Hau'oli, hopefully, translating to "happy" in Hawaiian.

So, I once heard a story about a woman trying to employ a restaurant worker as a stripper…Weird how these things make their way into my fanfiction.

**Sam**: This is the dumbest thing you've ever done.  
**Dean**: I don't know about that. Remember that waitress in Tampa?

-_(from Season 2's "Croatoan") _I decided to purposely not say if this was in Tampa, but couldn't help but mention that quote…


End file.
